


Old Friends

by pseudocitrus



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Episodic Chapters, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Pre-Canon, School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He avoided her because no one had ever heard her say anything and he doubted that she would start with him. If he had to make a friend, he figured it should at least be someone he could talk with, not some person with a glitchy voicebox.</p><p>Finally, though, she was the last one left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve got a lot of projects going on all at once @__@ but here’s a thing inspired by a post I saw recently re: Transistor’s source code, which suggested Boxer’s name is “Auden,” meaning “Old Friend” :’D

He avoided her because no one had ever heard her say anything and he doubted that she would start with him. If he _had_ to make a friend, he figured it should at least be someone he could talk with, not some person with a glitchy voicebox.

Finally, though, she was the last one left.

He shuffled toward the music room, where it was generally known that she could be found, spending recreational hours sketching by herself. He remembered her pronouns from class introductions, but not much else. He approached the music stand that she was perched beside, and cleared his throat.

_Here goes._

“Hi there, what’s your name?”

That line had gotten him _somewhere_ with everyone else in their class. But she just turned and stared at him. In the lengthening silence, he began to shuffle his weight from foot to foot.

“You hear me?” he demanded, nervously. “What’s your name?”

She turned her head back down to her papers. He felt warmth boil up across his face.

“I know you can hear me! Come on, Red,” he said, tugging on a distinctively-colored curl.

As soon as he touched her, her head turned so fast he was sure he heard her neck crack. She glared and stood, and for a second he thought she’d actually _yell_ at him — but, no. She just huffed; and then sat, and picked up her pencil again.

_What?_

This was not what he was expecting. Everyone else had always answered when he spoke to them, even if they just pissed him off or ran away afterward. He’d never been flat-out _ignored._

And ignored for a bunch of _paper_. She was sketching something on her lap and he stepped around, head tilted as he surveyed what she was drawing. Thus far she’d made a bunch of prisms and cubes on a grid, and seemed set on making as many more as possible.

“Are you making a city?” he asked, and her pencil stopped. She glanced up at him. Hesitated. Nodded.

“It looks pretty awful,” he told her, and yelled when she threw her pencil right against his nose. Pulse boiling, he shoved up the sleeve of his right arm, and bunched up his fist. After a brief reel back, he threw a punch at her.

She hissed when it connected with her side — and then his vision burst with white, and he jumped backward, and fell on his butt. She’d — she’d hit him back!

She’d hit him back with — with _a music stand_?!

And she was standing over him, still clenching it, eyes fierce as her papers fluttered to the ground, forgotten. She looked like she was ready to pummel him into the ground with the squeaky wireframe of it. And then she’d stuff him into an instrument case, probably. No one would even bother looking for him.

“Truce,” he gasped, “truce, truce, truce,” and she eyed him. Then she set the music stand down, and he retreated.

Well, so much for that. It’d been a new low for him, to let his temper get him to swing at the mute person who was fairly smaller than him. But, she’d scratched up his nose good enough to make it bleed, so.

He pinched the cut on his nose, and tried to sneak back into a bathroom to clean up, but the Instructor caught him in the hall.

“Who did you get into a fight with _this_ time?” they cried, and when he didn’t answer, they called an impromptu class assembly.

“Fighting is _not_ permitted in Cloudbank!” they reminded everyone furiously. “It serves no purpose, and helps _no one_! Remember, ‘There is no problem that can’t be solved with discussion and clear communication of what it is that all parties want!’”

The last line the Instructor recited perfectly from what he knew was Cloudbank’s constitution. Uh, or maybe it was just a list of common sense rules? Whatever.

“Now,” the Instructor continued, _“which one of you was fighting?”_

No one answered. The Instructor sighed, and dismissed them all, except for him, who they dragged off into another meeting with the principal and some related administrative officials, all of whom sighed as soon as they spotted him.

He fidgeted while they all discussed. Without a supposed opponent or victim, though, there wasn’t much anyone could conclude.

_Good thing she doesn’t say much._

Finally, the majority went to letting him go with a stern lecture, and his Instructor did the honors, waggling their finger in his face.

“This is _not_ how you make friends and valuable connections with your peers, young man,” they warned him, and he rolled his eyes and nodded and made his getaway as soon as possible.

There were still a couple classes left in the day, which passed by in the usual haze. Afterward, he trudged his way out of the school. Classes, valuable peer connections — he’d never grasped any of it. He wasn’t good at any of it, and none of it had ever done him any good. He kicked the pavement, grimly satisfied with the dent he made in it. It immediately began emitting buzzy sparks, though, and half a second later, the stone was regenerated, as if he hadn’t been there at all.

He was so sick of this. Now that the mute girl had beat him up, his friendship options were completely exhausted. Between that, and having absolutely no interest in any of his classes…well, what the point? After he graduated, living in Cloudbank at large would probably just have more of the same. Maybe he should just try his luck in the Country.

He was almost out the gate when he felt someone tug his arm. He whirled around, hands fisting impulsively.

It was _her_.

Great.

“What?” he demanded.

She frowned.

_“What?”_ he repeated. “Wanna have round two? I’m game. Go get your music stand.”

She shook her head, then pushed her hair behind one ear, and reached into her pocket to withdraw something.

A bandaid, he realized. She peeled off the backing and pressed the adhesive ends to either side of his nose, gently. The cotton rested perfectly on the scraped-up bridge of it, and he raised one hand and patted himself in surprise. No one had ever done something like this for him before.

He found himself grinning. Alright, maybe she wasn’t so bad. He cleared his throat.

“Hey, about earlier…when I get worked up I kinda stop thinking and…well, I don’t have an excuse, really. What I mean is, sorry.”

He hesitated, then reached out and punched her shoulder — this time, lightly.

“And, thanks. Red.”

She rubbed her shoulder, and then looked up, meeting his gaze. She tucked that hair of hers behind one ear again. Smiled slow.

“I’m sorry too,” she said, very quietly. “And…you’re welcome, Boxer."

He sputtered out a laugh. " _Boxer_?" he echoed, and she shrugged and gave an embarrassed cough.

"Nah, it's fine," he assured her. "I guess it kinda suits me."

_Friends,_ he thought. _Valuable connections with peers._

His hands fisted again, this time for an entirely different reason.

“Hey…um…you wanna walk home?” he asked. “Together, I mean.”

She pursed her lips, looking down at the ground.

For a second it looked like she might say what everyone else did: _No thanks._ He braced himself.

But then, finally, she nodded.


	2. New Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and performance anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an anon reminded me this morning that i hadn’t finished one of my Transistor WIPs~ fortunately it was almost done, so i went ahead and wrapped it up.
> 
> this mostly contains good feels, shrug.
> 
> hope you're having a good day; enjoy!

They didn’t share any classes, so the majority of their interactions were through messages, which she found to be an ideal arrangement. It was much easier for her to talk this way.

For the first time in a while, Red’s terminal buzzed consistently, and whenever it did, her head snapped down to its screen.

_> How’s Music going, Red?_

_> It’s fun,_  Red typed. She paused, then erased what she wrote.

_> It’s alright,_  she wrote, and immediately cleared the input again.

_> It’s okay but we’re not doing anything that’s really that interesting so_

No, no, no.

_> Boring._

_> Sorry to hear it,_  Boxer replied.  _Maybe I’ll drop by next time._

_> What?? What do you_

Backspace, backspace, backspace.

_> Why would you_

Backspace.

_> What about your classes?_  she managed finally.

_> What classes?_

She stared at the screen. Before she could form another reply, she received another message.

_> By the way, wanna have lunch?_

_> Roof,_  she replied.

Boxer was already there when she arrived, panting, at the top of the stairs.

“ _No classes?”_  she gasped, and he blinked at her, and then laughed.

“Flatbread  _again?”_  he asked back.

“Jan made it,” Red said, as if this answered everything. And then: “Why don’t you have any classes?”

He shrugged. “You’re only supposed to do what you have a proficiency in, right? Well, I don’t have a proficiency for anything.”

_But — how are you going to —_  Red opened her mouth and then closed it, suppressing, just in time, what she knew could be a scathing question, one that could completely scare him off from talking to her again.

He was perceptive, though. He grabbed a piece of flatbread from her and began to eat it as he leaned against the rooftoop fence.

“It’s okay,” he said between bites. “You can ask.”

She frowned, and did. “What about…your Selections?”

“Beats me. Probably won’t choose anything.”

She snorted out a small laugh. He didn’t. She felt her face warm with embarrassment and rubbed her belly to soothe a wave of nausea.

“Come try Music tomorrow,” Red said, trying to sound cheerful. “Maybe you’ll be good at it.”

“I’ll come along to hang out. But I’m warning you now that I can’t carry a single note,” he told her, and it turned out that he was right.

The class stared and flinched whenever he tried out a different instrument in vain. For what it was worth, Boxer seemed totally unembarrassed by his inability to coax out even a marginally pleasant sound from anything, and she was both appalled and impressed at his consistency. After some time he devoted himself to listening while lounged on the chair next to her, to everyone’s apparent relief.

“I notice  _you_  haven’t bothered playing anything yourself,” he remarked once the class had mostly packed up and vacated.

She stiffened. “I don’t like it,” she said. “Not…in front of everyone.”

“Yeah, I figured. Noticed you didn’t say anything when anyone else was around, either.”

She ran her fingers along a slim keyboard, and absently pressed middle C. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Sure.” He eyed her, then settled back into his chair. “Well, no one around now.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re somebody.”

“Not usually.”

“Stop!” she laughed, punching his shoulder lightly. “You’re somebody. What happened to ‘choose to work through your negativity?’”

“Same thing that happened to ‘No fighting.’ And ‘Take pride in your skill,’ for that matter,” he pointed out. She rolled her eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t...” She trailed off. This was going to be troublesome to explain. She took a breath. “It’s just...really easy to hear anyone practicing from this room...even outside. It’s embarrassing. But...no one else really cares...so there’s never a vote to change it.”

He considered. “So the room’s the problem? You don’t want to play in the room?”

“The room’s awful,” she agreed.

“Hmm.” He stood and circled the instruments, then picked up the keyboard she had been messing with, and hefted it up in both arms.

“Alright, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“W- _what_?” She spat out a shocked laugh. He didn’t.

“B- _Boxer_ ,” she sputtered as he walked toward the exit. “You can’t just —”

“Why not?” He tilted the keyboard vertically to get it through the door frame, then looked back to her from the hallway. “C’mon, instruments are here for students, right? Both of us want the keyboard. Pretty sure that’s the majority over the zero other people that are here right now.”

“That’s  _not_  how it works!“

“Trust me, Red. I know the rules here, probably better than anyone.”

“Doesn’t mean you  _follow_  them!” she hissed. But she felt something like a laugh on her mouth, and as she chased him down the hallway, she found that the rapid drumming of her heart wasn’t completely unpleasant.

They made their way haphazardly towards the roof, taking long ways around to avoid passerby, despite Boxer’s insistence that what they were doing was perfectly fine. They paused every time they heard voices or footsteps approaching, and were only caught once, by an Instructor who shouted and ran but couldn’t catch them despite their possession of a relatively large and unwieldy instrument.

Red held up one side of the keyboard as they ascended the staircase to the roof. Once they managed to get it set up there, the adrenaline that had been buzzing cheerfully through her body faded into the usual, churning nausea.

_Do it,_  she urged herself, not looking at Boxer.  _Sing._  She opened her mouth, and jabbed a finger again on middle C, and the note burst out from the keyboard with a volume that felt like it was stabbing her in the ears. The wind carried the sound away and she looked down beyond the fencing to see if anyone had heard it.

She closed her mouth, and stood there, feeling the silence swell.

“You can do it,” Boxer said, and she pursed her lips.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and she shook her head. Boxer was still staring at her. He’d gone through all the trouble to help bring up the keyboard and now she couldn’t even bear to hear another note come out of it.

_Say something!_  she shouted at herself.  _Say — SOMETHING!_

She choked, and fumbled for her terminal, so quickly she almost dropped it. Boxer peered over as she typed.

_> Sorry it’s just that I_

Backspace, backspace.

_> I really don’t want to_

Backspace backspace backspace backspace.

_> I DO want to but it’s just that_

“Okay, okay,” Boxer laughed. “I got it. You don’t want to make a mistake.”

She blinked at him, and realized he was right. She pursed her lips again and began to drone out a slow scale on the keyboard.

“It’s fine,” Boxer assured her. “Listen, you don’t need to force yourself to do it if you don’t want to. Maybe Music just isn’t your thing.”

“It  _is_!” she snapped. “It  _is_  my thing! I  _do_  want to do it! Music is my Selection, I know it. I want to write songs, I want to perform, I want to be a singer.”

“O-oh,” he said. “Okay.”

His eyes were wide — astonished, apprehensive. Red swallowed and looked away.

“I know it’s stupid,” she muttered. “But I know I could do it. If I could just do things right.”

The wind blew, rattling the fence links. Red tapped her nails on the keyboard keys, too lightly to make any noise other than a frustrated, nervous rapping. Then, realizing how annoying she was, she set her hands at her side.

This is where others had laughed at her, or patted her shoulder or head, or asked, gently,  _How can you be a singer if you can’t even speak?_

Boxer sighed.

“I’ve got bad news for you, Red,” he said, and Red’s hands fisted.

_What?_  she demanded with a glare.

“You’re probably always going to make a mistake about something — if not now, then sooner or later. Trust me, I’m probably the best mistake-maker there is here.”

She frowned at him but he just shrugged. “It’s true. Anyway, it doesn’t mean that you can’t Select whatever you want, as long it’s something you really  _want_  to do — or so our Instructor keeps telling me, anyway.”

Red tilted her head. He continued, not looking at her.

“Hey, you’re lucky you’ve got something that you  _want_  to do, at least. As long as you have that, who cares if you mess up now and then? You’ve got something to aim for. Come on,” he said, taking her fisted hands and setting them back on the keyboard. “You can’t do it right if you don’t do it at all.”

Boxer was so kind.

More than that, he was probably correct.

“You can do it. I’ll help you out,” he assured her, and Red bit her lip and nodded, fiercely. She tapped out a couple notes, and sucked in a breath, and opened her mouth — and the rooftop door burst open, interrupting her before she could sing a single note.

“ _There_  you are!” their Instructor panted. “Both of you! Detention!  _Now!_ ”

:::

Detention turned out to be well-suited to reading books and articles about performing in public, and no one watched closely enough to see that they were messaging each other fervently beneath their desks.

The next time they dragged the keyboard up to the roof, it was after having properly solicited a minimum number of votes from their peers saying that it was perfectly fine. As a result of their campaign, though, there was a small, curious audience sitting cross-legged with snacks on the roof as Red stumbled through her first, trembling, flinching, off-key notes.

But she and Boxer did more researched, and did more practice during the lonely lunch hour, and as the weeks passed she got better, more  _right_ , and soon votes were going to expanding the roof and inlaying a stage to facilitate larger performances involving other students. The afternoon bustle was large enough now that she couldn’t even pick him out in the crowd sometimes, but he always sent her messages after.

_> Great work,_  he said once.  _Chin up though, remember?_

_> You missed a line, but I don’t think anyone noticed,_  he said another time.

_> Told you you could do it,_  he said during her first standing ovation, and Red smiled to herself. She started typing something out, and then erased it.

“Thanks,” she told him, in person, and he cuffed her shoulder with his knuckles, lightly.

“Anytime.”


	3. New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’d been a long time since Cloudbank had a designated New Year’s Day, and it had taken dedicated campaigning to bump the event into the foreseeable future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ This is "Red/Boxer new year fluff" as requested by an anon on Tumblr :')  
> \+ happy new year all you all! \o/

It’d been a long time since Cloudbank had a designated New Year’s Day, and it had taken dedicated campaigning to bump the event into the foreseeable future.

For weeks, the OVC terminals chimed and flashed enthusiastically at passerby. Every time Red ordered flatbread, the order form was accompanied by an image of Sybil gesturing vigorously at a ballot in the sidebar.

_> Vote for when Cloudbank should hold the greatest celebration of the year!_

_> A party that’ll last in your memory forever!_

_> A day to leave the past behind, and bring Cloudbank into a brighter and more beautiful future!_

It took surprisingly long to reach consensus, but as soon as the date was set, Sybil began nailing down the details.

“I’d love for you to perform there, Red,” she said, eyes shining, and Red shook off another shuddery double-take. _Red._

It had been a while since someone had called her that with any frequency. (A particular someone, in fact.) Now everyone was starting to use it.

“Who’s on the guest list?” Red found herself asking.

“Everybody! Well, everybody who’s anybody,” Sybil amended.

_Would he count,_ she wondered, _as “anybody”?_

“It could be a sort of debut for you,” Sybil continued, and Red almost laughed. Since when was she not a “debuted” Musician?

But Sybil’s excitement couldn’t be dampened.

“It sounds,” Red told her, “like a lot of fun,” and she accepted the gig.

:::

There were few that remembered Cloudbank’s last New Year, and it was from them that all the traditional cues were learned, and embellished.

_Champagne’s important_ , they’d said, and the plazas were filled with fountains frothing gold fizz.

_There should also be a clock that counts down to midnight,_ they’d added, _a big one so everyone can see,_ and within the day it was rendered and set atop a spire by the Empty Set.

_And once the hour strikes,_ they’d concluded, _you should have someone to kiss._

That last one was something that Sybil couldn’t control as easily, though that didn’t stop her from trying.

“I hate to ask you last minute, but maybe you can sing romantic things for your set?” Sybil asked. And then, when Red grimaced: “What? What’s the matter?”

“Romance hasn’t always worked out for me,” she explained, and Sybil chuckled and took her shrugging arm.

“Well, that was the past! I’m sure the New Year will bring you something — new. Better.”

_It’s time for change!_ the posters encouraged. _New year, new resolutions, new friends, new self, new Cloudbank!_

Red made her way to the stage’s center, looked out over the crowd, met the gazes of people whose faces were obscured by festive headwear. She smiled, and people clapped, and someone whooped, _“Red!”_

She curled her fingers around the mike, and inhaled.

:::

It wasn’t that she disliked romantic songs.

But — like some of her other music — her love songs always seemed to either miss the audience, or bruise it.

Cloudbank adored big, whirlwind love. Love that ravaged like a storm, leveling everything that had come before it, love that stole all the breath in your body and set what remained on fire. Cloudbank loved love that was like nothing that had ever existed. Cloudbank loved love that changed everything.

Sitting together, walking together, without any words said. Finding each other in quiet rooms. Surprising each other with favorite foods, accumulating a repertoire of years-old jokes that made sense to no one else — these were all the things Cloudbank would never call love.

Friendship, maybe. But not _love._

Maybe, Red had been telling herself recently, they were right.

:::

Red stepped down from the stage to heavy, heady applause, and lost herself in the crowd before Sybil could find her and try to get her to sing something more storm-like.

It was easy, at least, to join the rest of the festivities. One wall of the Empty Set had been truncated, left open to a broad and crowded plaza. From the Set’s hollow spilled light-studded carpets, and webs of glowing lanterns, and wobbly, dog-sized bubbles that meandered across the city and spilled glitter on you if you popped them.

“Red,” someone called out, “was that all? It was so beautiful, I hope there will be an encore later tonight,” and Red shook their hand and drew her shawl over her shoulders.

“Red,” someone called next, “I didn’t get it, but it was lovely, I have some ideas for you if you’d like,” and Red signed an autograph and searched for a pair of feather-framed glasses to wear.

“Red,” someone else called, “will you perform at my festival next week,” and Red bowed her head and made some noises and found a big hat with a veil that trailed to her shoulders.

Someone still found her then, someone that tapped her shoulder, and she wouldn’t have bothered turning around at all if she hadn’t heard them say, “Hi.”

Her pulse picked up, felt like it went doubletime to the _tick tock_ of the clock above them. She turned. Sure enough, there he was — jacket and everything.

“Hey,” she replied, grinning. And then, before she realized what she was saying: “I was waiting for you.”

“Yeah?” His eyebrow cocked. “I guess it is a pretty dull party.” Boxer swung his arm indicatively at the champagne fountains, the giant clock, the buffet tables and servers, and at a giant bubble, which subsequently burst sparkles onto his right arm. Red laughed, and her arms made a short jerking motion, something that started and then stopped being a hug once she realized what she was doing.

Where had that come from? They were friends, but not really _hugging_ friends. Right? Maybe? Were they?

She couldn’t remember when this had started mattering.

Boxer’s eyes flicked toward her arms, and she rubbed them as if she was cold.

“Have you had a bite yet?” she asked. He shook his head, and she led him to a buffet table, where they collected food and drinks.

“I heard you,” he said casually, after swallowing a scallop. “Up there, I mean. You’re amazing.” Red felt her face warm. “And, you caught the ear of the great Sybil Reisz, which means you’re A-list now, huh? _Red?_ ”

Red snorted. “That hasn’t stopped getting weird yet.”

“Yeah? Figured you’d be used to it by now.”

“Not from anyone but you! Boxer,” she added slyly, and he rolled his eyes, not unkindly.

“You definitely came out with the better name,” he said, and she whacked him a bit, with her glass.

“Gonna have to do better than that,” he told her. “Maybe try out a music stand from the orchestra pit over there.”

“You’re _never_ going to let that one go.”

“Never,” he agreed.

She couldn’t think of anything to say after that, and neither could he, it seemed. Red swallowed. For too long, they just stood there, weight shifting, with limp smiles and eyes shifting away from each other. Red felt her heart speed, with apprehension. What happened? This wasn’t normal. Usually, seeing him was so comfortable, so stress-free.

“It’s nice to see you,” she tried. “I’m glad you could sneak in.”

“If by ’sneaking’ you mean ‘just walking in,’” he said dryly.

“Oh — well — you know what I mean. I just haven’t seen you since...I just feel like I haven’t seen you since...forever,” Red finished, helplessly.

Boxer swirled the fluid in his glass. For a second she thought he might make another quip — _“Is that how long a couple weeks is, now? Forever?”_ — but instead he just agreed, soberly. “Yeah. Me too.”

At least this time he was in one piece. He picked at his bandages, and she decided not to ask about it.

She tried to think about something else to talk about. In the end, he came up with something himself, pointing at one of the nearby displays.

_> What,_ asked one of them, _are your New Year’s Resolutions?_

“‘Resolutions?’” he said. “What’re those?”

“Something you promise that you’ll accomplish in the new year,” Red explained. “Or something that you want more of.”

He snorted. “What’s the point of that? Who even knows when the new year’s gonna end?”

“I think it’s a good idea! It’s sort of like — like casting a vote on yourself, on how you want to change. And,” Red added, for no reason she could immediately think of, “it makes a good, clear border. Between what things were, I mean. And what they could be.”

He eyed her. Swirled his glass again. “Do _you_ have any Resolutions?”

Red considered, sipping her drink and then copying his swirling motion. These drinks were pretty good at keeping you occupied. “Well,” she admitted, “for at least one of my Resolutions, I was thinking that it’d be….it’d be really nice to see you more often. Like — like the old days. We saw each other all the time, back then.”

Sip. Swirl, swirl, swirl. She gazed across the festivities as the silence stretched.

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” he said finally, and the laugh Red made herself make was startled and strained.

“Yeah,” she mumbled hastily, “yeah, I didn’t — I mean — obviously, I just —“

“I mean,” he interrupted, “unless you’re willing to find our old Instructor to stick us back in detention for days on end. I think your view of the good ol’ days is a little too rosy.”

“Yeah,” Red said. “Yeah.”

Silence.

“That was a joke,” he said.

“Haha,” Red replied.

Sip. Swirl, swirl, swirl.

Maybe her view of those times _was_ a little too rosy, she found herself thinking. She’d always looked forward to seeing him, but recently — and especially now — being with him just felt...lacking.

And _wanting._

And as the minutes passed, she was becoming painfully sure that he didn’t feel quite the same way.

She felt him staring at her. She downed the rest of her glass and set it, and her empty plate, on a table.

“I think I’m going to head home,” she said, through a buzz that had failed to make her feel less unpleasant.

“Already?” he asked. “You’re not going to wait till midnight?”

She made a smile at the ground. “Afraid not.”

“How about a dance? Just one song?” Boxer set his glass and plate down too. “C’mon. For old times’ sake.”

“Since when did our old times ever involve dancing?” she wondered, but his hand was extended out to her now, fingers spread and beckoning. Against her better judgment, she wanted to take it, and did.

:::

Boxer’s idea of dancing turned out to involve jerky motions alternating between exaggerated pantomimes of the people around them. Red’s own attempts at dancing soon degenerated into doubling over laughing, and doing her best to one-up him on imitations of people. She copied, perfectly, the sinuous motion of the swan on someone’s hat; and he had an impeccable rendition of a nearby person’s gyrations, though his version was somehow even more enthusiastic than the original.

The end of the song came with an ostentatious announcement of the time, the hours and minutes and seconds left until the New Year, and they stayed on the floor for another song, and another, and another. They left only when they were exhausted, to fill their panting mouths with more champagne.

“Look,” Boxer whispered in her ear, pointing. There was a server distributing palm-sliced slices of flatbread, and Red gave an uncharacteristic squeal. They chased the server around until the platter was empty, and then decided sedately that Jan’s was better.

She started feeling warm, so she left her shawl somewhere, and the hat too, but kept the glasses. This time when people approached her she responded with an easy vigor and brightness, passed out her contact information, and more than once she said goodbye and looked up at Boxer only to see him already looking back.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, the first time.

“Really, it’s nothing,” he said, the second time.

The third time, he said: “Give it a rest! I’m just happy for you, alright?”

“Happy! About what?”

“That — that you made it. You’re a singer, Red. Look at all these people that want you around.”

In his words she heard a familiar undertone and she said, “I like it when _you’re_ around too, you know.”

And instead of his usual shrug or eyeroll, he said, “Yeah. I know.”

The music slowed to a languorous, honeyed crawl. Against her better judgment, her head buzzy now not so much with alcohol as with something else more pleasant, she extended her hand out to him, fingers spread and beckoning. He took it, and they walked out to a spot on the floor, took a place in the gentle sway. His hands rested on her waist, easy, and her hands linked behind his back, easy, easy. No glancing sidelong this time, for others to copy; this time they were just themselves.

She pressed her face against his chest, between the lapels of his jacket. Against one ear she heard his steady pulse; against the other, the tick of the clock. He was warm, and solid, and comfortable. She closed her eyes and felt as he lifted his arm to her shoulders, felt as his hand pushed her hair behind her ear. His voice stirred her bangs.

“Are you feeling better?”

_What are you talking about_ , she considered saying. _I’m fine._

But he knew her. Knew her well enough to understand what she meant, when she responded not with words, but with a light squeeze.

“I’m glad,” he said. He didn’t ask what had been wrong. Maybe, she thought with mingled hope and horror, he had guessed that, too.

She felt the song ending before it did, heard its strings begin to keen and keel, felt disappointment knot in her chest. They’d part, probably, when the music was over, when the context of contact faded.

She decided she’d wait for him to let go first. But he didn’t. His hands dropped, but it was only to take hers.

_“Three minutes left until the New Year!_ ” announced someone on the loudspeaker — Sybil, Red realized. Red looked up at the clock, whose borders and hands where flashing frenetically. Servers were coming around not with platters now, but baskets brimming with colorful devices.

_“If you don’t have a popper yet, grab one!”_ Sybil encouraged. _“And a partner, too!”_

“You pull the string on the popper when the New Year comes,” Red explained. “And the partner’s for kissing, apparently.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

He let a server pass by without obtaining a popper.

_“Two minutes!”_

“I think I have a Resolution,” he said.

“Oh? What is it?”

“Well…this is the New Year, right? A...how did you describe it? A separation between what was and could be?”

“I think I remember something like that,” Red said.

“Right. So…anyway, your Resolution sounded alright. But to be honest, I can’t really get behind seeing each other all the time. At least not in the ‘just the way we always used to be’ sort of way.”

_“One minute!”_

“So,” he said, and didn’t continue. But she knew him. Knew him well enough to understand what he meant, when he continued not with words, but with a light squeeze.

She couldn’t help it; she blushed, and laughed.

_“Thirty seconds!”_

He drew her close. “Can I?” he asked against her ear.

“Yes,” she breathed back.

The crowd was pressing around them, were shouting down the seconds, eyes wide and reflecting the clock’s light.

_“Five! Four!”_

Boxer removed the feathery glasses she was still wearing.

_“Three! Two!”_

He cupped his hand around her left cheek, and she leaned her head against it, curled her hand around his knuckles.

_“One!”_

He bent toward her. His mouth met hers, gently, briefly, and the charge that went through her wasn’t _uncomfortably strange_ , as she had feared, but instead _distressingly right._ He straightened quickly, shyly, with a nervous lick of lips, and the instant he did, she leaped at him, arms constricting his neck. He yelled in surprise as she kissed him again, again, again, each time deeper than the last. She felt him smile as he wrapped his arms around her body and lifted her up, off her feet and against him.

When she came to, when Boxer set her back on her feet, she felt dizzy, in a good way. Confetti was caught in the strands of their hair, was still falling down on them and the other celebrants of Cloudbank. The sky was silver and gold.

“Happy New Year,” he told her, maybe a little unnecessarily.

“Happy New Year,” she agreed.

“Let’s spend it together,” he said, “however long it ends up being,” and that sounded just fine with her.


End file.
